


Still I Will Remain

by Rahmi



Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Break Up, F/M, Freedom, POV Female Character, Plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-28
Updated: 2010-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:31:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahmi/pseuds/Rahmi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Layla's never been anything as poetic as wishes on the wind, at least not yet, but she can be lupine and throw herself free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still I Will Remain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the cages square of the H/C bingo challenge. No warnings that I can figure out, except for rampant abuse of plant meanings. Will/Layla (sort of) and past-Zach/Magenta. Layla centric.

Layla's pretty good at knowing her own heart. It's one of those things that comes from living with a mother who can talk to animals and a father that has a knack for reading emotions. You couldn't keep secrets in her house.

So when her dad cocks his head one day when her and Will are eating over and says, "Oh," Layla knows she has some soul searching to do. She doesn't like when her dad knows things before she does.

It doesn't take as long as it should.

She goes home again. The garden's been overrun since the last time she was there; she thinks she was going for an Eden vibe, but she can't actually remember. She ruthlessly trims back growth while she waits for her father to come home.

It's past time for a change.

She's so caught up in fixing what her stupidity did to her poor mom's garden that it takes her a long time to notice her dad. "Your mother liked that fern," he says.

"I'm going to grow a verbena," Layla says. "She'll like the color more than the leaves." She stares blankly down at the fern she's regressing. "Can I talk to you?" she asks.

"You know you can always talk to me, papaya."

Layla hasn't grown papayas for years, but her dad's always called her that. Something about her red hair and her penchant for green clothes. "I think I've fallen out of love-love with Will," she says. She thinks she sounds about fourteen years old when she says it, but the English language is so restrictive.

There aren't enough words for love, she's always thought, and too many for hate.

Dad leans over to put an arm around her shoulders and reel her in. "Then what do you need to talk to me about?" he asks playfully.

"Dad," she objects, "I'm having a moment here. I just figured out that I don't want to spend the rest of my life waking up with Will's dirty socks at the foot of the bed."

"It's good you figured that out now instead of later, right?" Dad asks.

Layla leans her head against his shoulder. "I guess. You wouldn't happen to have any words of advice would you?"

"Are you asking for advice or are you trying to snoop into Will's emotions?"

"Both?" Layla says, smiling hopefully.

"That's cheating," Dad says. "What have I taught you about cheating?"

Layla sniffs, the smell of gardenias and freesias filling the air, and says, "I'm only ever allowed to do it if it'll save me, my partner, or innocent bystanders."

"There's my girl."

* * *

So Layla knows her heart. That does not, unfortunately, make her able to know other people's hearts. She sits down with Will the next day, and tells him her rehearsed speech.

"Sometimes," she says, holding his hand, "People start relationships thinking they're going to be like oak trees and truffles. Everyone benefits, you know? And they produce something beautiful and expensive and everyone's happy."

Will has a confused look on his face, but he gamely nods his head. In retrospect, she probably shouldn't have gone with the plant allegory. "Alright," he says, "Go on."

God, Layla loves him. He's so sweet and he's so kind and he's not what she wants any more at all. It breaks her heart.

"Okay," she says, "Okay, so, sometimes instead of oak and truffles, you get kudzu vines. They're pretty and they're useful in the short term, but they spread quickly and unless you know what you're doing, they aren't good for anyone involved."

Will's hands tighten on hers. Layla doesn't know if it's because he understands what she's getting at or if it's because her voice had just wobbled dangerously. He's smiling at her, though, soft and gentle. "Isn't that the vine that ate the South?" Will asks.

"Yeah," Layla says, bobbing her head, "Yeah, it is. See, in that case, it was bad. But in Japan, it's used for teas and in the Amazon, it's used to improve soil property. It's not a bad plant. It's just bad for some people." She takes a deep breath. "Kudzu vines are what some people are looking for. I'm just... not."

"I don't have plant powers, Layla," Will says, but there's a look on his face like he _gets it._ He squeezes her hands gently and smiles.

Layla feels like an absolute weed at the tears in his eyes. "So sometimes," she says quietly, "You have to just set fire to it so you can start again."

"Yeah," Will says, "I hear you."

She starts crying then. She can't help it; she knows it's not really her right, but she still _loves him._ she's just not in love with him anymore and she doesn't think she's willing to try to be. She tries not to lie to herself.

Will's at her side in an instant, curling an arm around her like her best ivy does and pressing her face into his chest. "It's okay," he says, "It's okay, Layla."

"I'm sorry," she hiccups miserably.

* * *

Layla doesn't know what she wants. But she knows that this is a good first step. She doesn't have much stuff to begin with; she doesn't like to buy into the consumer based economy when she doesn't have to, so most of the stuff in their apartment is Will's.

It makes everything easier. It makes everything harder.

She's the one leaving.

"Are you sure?" Magenta asks. "I know you're the one who broke it off, but, trust me, the girl's always in the right. We always get first pick of the apartment."

Magenta's been through a divorce and more break-ups than Layla can count, so she'd know the rules if there are any. Layla sighs, though, and says, "I want to leave, Magenta."

Her friend shrugs. "I'm just pointing out your options," she says.

"Keep 'em to yourself," Zach offers snidely from the other room.

"No comments from the peanut gallery," Magenta yells back. She wrinkles her nose and crosses her arms; it's more defensive than antagonistic, though. Magenta and Zach, Layla's found, do not know their hearts. They don't even try to.

She loves her friends, but she thinks they might be yellow star thistle to Will's kudzu. She can't grow here and she can't take a step without landing on someone else's mistakes. Ethan's already blown away like dandelion seeds.

It's time for her to go too.

Layla's never been anything as poetic as wishes on the wind, at least not yet, but she can be lupine and throw herself free.

"I swear," Magenta mutters. "Boys get stupider and stupider the older we get, huh, Layla?"

Layla thinks about Will _getting_ her allegory, even though it was plant based and he's always been terrible with plants, and she thinks about Ethan going where he wants and she thinks about Warren. Warren's birch, quick to flame and long lasting, and a lot of people are allergic to him, but he's learned his strength better than she has and she's a little jealous.

So maybe Layla's the stupid one.

Layla twists her hair up into a bun and binds it into place. "Help me pick out what I'm taking, huh?"

* * *

Warren gives her a ride to the airport in his beat-up truck. Layla doesn't actually approve of cars or airplanes, but she's willing to recognize a necessary evil to get where she needs to go. Even if she doesn't have a destination in mind.

Seeds don't need to know where they're going. They just need to be able to go.

"Do you think I'm an orchid?" she asks Warren.

Warren pushes his hair out of his eyes with one hand and says, "Sure, hippie, why not?"

"An orchid seed can take up to 18 months to ripen," Layla says. "That's a really long time in the plant world. But when they're ready, they just float away. Anemochory is such a beautiful thing."

"What are you talking about, Layla?" Warren asks. He flicks a glance at her through the open sides of his sunglasses and quirks his mouth. It's a smile that's always made Layla's heart bloom; it's warm enough to open even the hardest radiata pine cone and sweet enough to put bridewort to shame.

He smiles more now. Layla loves that about him.

Layla thumps a hand against his shoulder, rolling her eyes, before she opens her window. "Flowers, obviously," she says. "Pay attention, Warren."

"I am," Warren says, "I just have no idea what you're babbling."

"I'm not babbling." Layla smirks, twisting in her seat to plant one knee against Warren's leg.

"Seriously," Warren says, "No idea."

Layla reaches out with her one hand to catch at the red strands in Warren's hair. They're starting to outnumber the brown as he gets more powerful, but the patch on the right side of his head are still her favorite. "You don't need to," she says as she finger combs his hair. "The important thing is that _I_ don't know where I'm going."

Warren bats her hand away. "Hippie," he growls warningly. He hates when she plays with his hair. After six years, though, you'd think he would have gotten used to it. "You're starting to sound like you've been hitting the poppies."

"I could so be a drug lord," Layla says cheekily.

"Sure," Warren snorts, "Hippie Lord. For all your plant based narcotic needs."

"Cute," Layla says.

"Weird," Warren corrects. "You do know you sound crazy, right? You don't need to know where you're going?"

She lets Warren's hair flow through her fingers until she's clutching nothing but air and leans back against her window. "I'm a flower child, Warren," she says, "We're not big on knowing where we're going. Just the journey's enough."

"It's a good thing I'm fire, then," he says, "'Cause I really don't understand."

Warren's birch and even if he started out surfing the wind with papery wings, he's more concerned with where he's growing than where he might have gone. He's put down deep roots since they've been watering him and the only way to pull him up now would be to chop him down. Layla's not willing to do that.

That's alright, though, because Layla? Layla knows her heart and in her heart, she's a seed the size of a dust speck, floating on the breeze. She has a one in a million chance of finding somewhere she can thrive, but that's alright too.

"It's about finding someplace new, where there's nothing to fight me for sun or water or air," Layla says. She puts her hand out of the open window and spreads her fingers. The sun is hot on her skin. The plants they drive past reach for her. Warren's looking at her out of the corner of his eye again. Layla smiles at him, and winks. "Watch me grow," she says.


End file.
